


The Devil's Soul

by lizardkid



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Vladimir Ranskahov Just Wants To Get Some Sleep, Vladimir Ranskahov Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3879982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizardkid/pseuds/lizardkid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vladimir starts to laugh but it dissolves into a cough and then a groan. His lip quirks in irritation and the mirth drains from his face. “You should have let me—” he pauses as he gets his breath back and regains his composure “—should have let me die.”</p><p>Matt doesn't have a response to this, because he’s beginning to think he should have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bite the Hand That Feeds

**Author's Note:**

> I originally started writing this for the following prompt on the kinkmeme: 
> 
> "Vladimir/Matt, hurt/comfort. I really want more info on why he was being tortured in prison, and from the way the show puts it, it seems recent enough to still be an issue, so maybe sad Vladimir talking about how he got his scar? Can be established relationship or not, I literally just want sad Vladimir :)"
> 
> I think it got away from me a bit, though. It's gonna be a bit of a slow build. Just as a warning: I don't ship Matt and Vladimir that much, so I'm not even sure how far I'll take that yet, but I really wanted to write some Sadimir so enjoy!

“Vladimir. Vladimir?”

The lawyer snaps his fingers and slaps the Russian across the face, which earns him a grunt and a half-hearted swat at his own face but does the job of resurrecting the unconscious man.

“Good. Stay with me.” Vladimir grunts again, and turns away from Matt to stare into the gloom of the warehouse, which is somehow even emptier than the one he’d woken up in the first time. The Russian probably can’t tell the difference between opening and closing his eyes, and doesn't realise he’s slipping back into a slumber until Matt starts repeating his name and tapping at his leg incessantly.

“ _Bozhe,”_ the Russian grits out through clenched teeth, and starts to shift position so that’s he’s sitting up straight against the wall. " _Ty zaebal..._ AH-"

The dull throbbing in his abdomen presumably sparks back into searing agony because he can’t contain the pathetic cry that tears itself from his throat. Matt moves instantly to help him out of habit but Vladimir practically growls in protest. “Don’t,” he mutters, and Matt complies; hears him struggle into a sitting position and try to hide his breathlessness.

“If you’re too proud to let me help you, you’re going to die.” His voice is matter-of-fact and the frown betraying his disapproval is hidden beneath the mask.  

The Russian starts to laugh but it dissolves into a cough and then a groan. His lip quirks in irritation and the mirth drains from his face. “You should have let me—” he pauses as he gets his breath back and regains his composure “—should have let me die.”

Matt doesn't have a response to this, because he’s beginning to think he should have. He sits back on his haunches and wraps his arms around his knees, listening closely to the Russian’s heartbeat. It sounds weak (blood loss will do that) but Matt knows that’s not all there is to it. It's the sound of someone giving up.

“Vladimir.”

Vladimir ignores him – presumably to stare listlessly in the darkness and contemplate the futility of life and the strong, alluring pull of death. He takes air into his lungs in long, arduous inhalations and releases it in swift huffs. Every breath is a struggle. Vladimir wants to die, and obviously blames Matt for taking away the opportunity to go out fighting, and for this Matt feels responsible – he feels the heavy burden of guilt resting on his shoulders.

There is a part of him, a sizeable part, which thinks Vladimir didn’t deserve to die bravely, and maybe that’s why he convinced him to keep going after the Russian had accepted his fate. It would be a far more apt punishment to keep him alive—beaten, broken, and brother-less. But Matt couldn't be that cruel, not even to a man he hated.

At least, not until he got what he needed from him.

Matt huffs a small sigh – more out of weariness than frustration. “Can I ask you something?”

“ _Nyet_ ,” Vladimir answers, uninterested. “ _Pizdyuk_.” Matt’s Russian is fairly limited but he manages to catch the gist.

“Was human trafficking a childhood ambition, or did you wake up one morning with the urge to kidnap and sell kids?”

Matt doesn't know the man well enough to anticipate what kind of reaction this will prompt, but he hopes for at least mild anger. Anger is about the only emotion Vladimir has displayed thus far. Vladimir is silent but Matt can hear his heart thumping against his ribcage a little harder. For a moment he thinks he’s a hit a nerve, then he hears the faint but distinct sound of wry laughter. Vladimir shifts his position, and grins up at the ceiling.

“Oh,” he breathes. “You would not like to hear that story.”

“Try me. I already know who—” Matt licks his lips “—what kind of person you are.”

Vladimir hums, still amused, and Matt isn't sure if he’s agreeing or mocking him. More likely the latter, but Matt continues to press for information when Vladimir offers nothing further.

“Alright. What about that big scar across your face? Will you tell me who gave you that, so that I can find them and shake their hand?”

Unbeknownst to Matt, Vladimir’s eyebrow twitches minutely. “ _Nyet_ ,” he says again, still uninterested. “It is boring story. I would much rather sleep.”

Matt considers this, tilts his head from side to side. “Well,” he starts, “if you do that, you might not wake up.”

The Russian snorts derisively, an unspoken _I know_.

“Your choice,” Matt continues. “If you want to sit here in silence until I know it’s safe to leave, that’s up to you.”

Vladimir goes quiet for a few moments, then takes a breath an exhales it slowly, groaning a little as he does so. “Fine,” he says at length. “I choose silence.”

Matt shakes his head, in awe of how stubborn this Russian is, but accepts his decision wordlessly. Quiet settles. Or, a relative quiet. The sound of Vladimir’s heart beating, steady and stronger now, has been his priority and he allows it to pervade his senses. The dull thud of it against his ribcage, the shudder of the impact, the rush of blood with each beat. Matt sits upright and crosses his legs, relaxes his body so that he can focus. His breathing falls sub-consciously into a steady rhythm from years of practice. Slowly, he allows the other stimuli in.

The metallic taste of copper, the heavy stench of sweat, the dripping of water from a broken faucet, the heat radiating from Vladimir’s torso. Stretching further, there’s the creaking of old floorboards, the flapping of bird wings in the rafters two floors above, the scuttling and squeaking of rats in the basement beneath them, the smell of rotting, damp wood. Further still, the hissing of a cat at the other end of the street, the thrum of a lone car passing by, oblivious to the two fugitives holed up half a block away.

And there, finally, he pinpoints it: another heartbeat.    

“She’s still there,” Matt says. The Russian doesn't respond, but Matt notes the brief spike in his heart rate as he’s brought out of his stupor by the unexpected voice. Frankly, Matt had hoped he’d be able to spark Vladimir’s interest, but he seems as unresponsive as ever.

“Getting closer actually. She’s tired, though. If we’re lucky she’ll call it quits before she reaches the warehouse. Never thought I’d be praying for an officer to do their job poorly.” Still nothing. “She’s distracted, too, keeps checking her watch, keeps fiddling with the radio in her p--”

“If I tell you,” Vladimir interrupts, “how I got my scar…will you stop showing off?”

Matt can’t hide his surprise, but masks the offence he feels at being accused of showing off.  

“I suppose so,” he replies, voice quieter than before.

“ _Khorosho_. Prison. Long time ago. Like I said, boring.”

Well, he isn't lying, but with something so purposely vague it almost doesn't matter. It doesn't tell Matt anything about Vladimir that he didn’t already know, except that he’d faced at least some justice for the crimes he’d committed. Although, obviously, it had done nothing to reform the Russian. Sometimes the justice system fails, Matt knows this all too well, and there are some men and women who can’t be changed; who deserve to die in prison. Not for the first time, he reconsiders his decision to convince Vladimir to live.

“In Russia?”

“Siberia,” Vladimir confirms.

“What were you doing there?”

He snorts, mirthless and disdainful, before dead-panning, “family vacation”; avoidant as ever but Matt is glad that he’s talking at least.

“Anatoly was there, too?” Matt’s head twitches minutely as he angles it slightly toward the officer at the opposite end of the street. She’s moving toward them. “Why were you in prison?” he asks, trying his best not to sound distracted or disinterested.

“I think,” Vladimir starts, already beginning to fade again, “it is better if you do not know.”

The officer’s heartbeat gets closer; the static on her radio gets louder. His ears are almost twitching, straining to catch her every footfall and breath. “Why’s that?” Matt asks, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

Her steps are heavier now, and faster, she’s walking with purpose.

“You would…think twice about…saving me if you…if…”

Vladimir’s heart rate is slowing and the officer is right outside their building. Matt can hear his own heartbeat loudly in his ears, drowning out the other two, and he tries desperately to slow it down, to regain some control. _Breathe._ He counts again. One. Two. Three. Four. _Hold it._ One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.

He keeps going, keeps counting until the uproar in his mind starts to clear, until he starts to feel light-headed, and then, finally, he begins to exhale. As he does so, the two heartbeats come back into focus. Vladimir’s, slow and weak, and the officer’s. It takes a few seconds for him to recalibrate his senses and figure out her location, which is still less than ten meters from where they’re hiding.

 _Leave,_ Matt begs silently. _Please just leave._ Now would be the perfect time to discover some latent mind control powers.

Her radio crackles and beeps as she holds down the communicator button to speak, but she pauses. The vigilante clenches his fist, his whole body tense and nearly vibrating from the adrenaline that his body is supplying, which he can’t do anything with. All he can do is wait, so he does.

He waits while she releases the button, and heaves a sigh. He waits as she taps her foot idly in thought, as she runs her fingers through her hair, as she bites at her nails. And then he waits when her movement stops and she's silent. Matt starts to grow suspicious, a million doubts and second-guesses running through his head. _Did she already call for backup? Did I miss it? What if she's known this whole time?_ He begins to formulate strategies of attack, of escape, he considers leaving Vladimir behind and he considers how far he'd be able to carry him without stopping. The thoughts pile up and up and up until there's no room left in his head, until-

“7th and 12th clear.”

Matt almost laughs with relief, but waits until she’s well clear of the block before doing so.

“She’s gone,” he says to no-one, because Vladimir is unconscious again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian translations:
> 
> Bozhe: God  
> Ty zaebal: I'm sick of you/I'm so done with you  
> Nyet: no  
> Pizdyuk: cunt  
> Khorosho: good/fine
> 
> I just pieced these together from various sites, I can't speak Russian, so these might be wrong. I wrote the words out phonetically rather than in cyrillic script so that people could read along with it.
> 
> Also, I originally planned to write two chapters/two scenes, but I'm splitting it up a bit or else I'll never finish it. So I think there will be two more chapters. Hopefully. More likely I will either give up or get way too into it and write an entire novel.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!! Especially if you want to talk to me about how horrible and wonderful Vladimir is.


	2. Tap the Vein That Bleeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _Vladimir,_ ” he says, voice hoarse with desperation. It makes Vladimir’s lips curl up in amusement. _Do you think this is a game?_ the man had asked him and yeah, he does. It has always been a game to him. Pawns moving forward, slow and calculated, until they are transformed into something better. Something more important, more powerful. _But not immortal._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in the time it took me to write this chapter I think I started to ship Matt/Vladimir in sincerity. More like SINcerity. haha. because I'm going to hell. along with the Ranskahovs. and this ship.
> 
> Aaaanyway it was fun as hell to write from Vladimir's perspective so I hope it is fun to read. I'm still, sadly, not fluent in Russian, so if you are then please feel free to correct me on anything. The translations are in the end notes.

When the world reappears, it’s upside down. Vladimir finds himself slung haphazardly over Matt’s back, bouncing like a newborn as the masked asshole tries to run and carry his weight simultaneously. His initial reaction is anger, then indignity, and then anger again when he starts to feel the searing pain in his side once more. Despite his immediate, unpleasant feelings on the matter, he can’t summon the energy to struggle against the vigilante’s grip, so allows himself to be manhandled, humiliated but still breathing, through the dark city.

The first thing he notices, after the humiliation and the second degree burn just above his hip, is that he has no idea where he is—or where he's being taken.

The vigilante’s movements jostle his injury past the point of his pain tolerance (which, as a hardened Russian criminal, is unusually high, but he’s still only human) and he inhales sharply, air hissing through his teeth.

At the sound, Matt stops dead in his tracks.

“Where are you taking me?” Vladimir manages through a grimace.

“I already told you, I can’t speak Russian,” Matt says, wasting no time in setting a slightly bemused Vladimir down against the wall. Vladimir can feel the bullet inside him shift and he fights the urge to vomit; settles for swaying like a seasick sailor from side to side instead.

“What?” he demands, but what comes out is “ _chto_?”

A few moments of the vigilante staring pass—at least, Vladimir assumes it’s a stare; he mostly inferred it from the gaping mouth and lack of response—before he realises his error. If he weren’t so damn tired and disorientated, he probably would have found it funny.

“Where,” he murmurs, with great difficult, in English this time.

The masked asshole glances around. "Not far from the warehouse, I was heading toward—"

" _Nyet_ ," Vladimir growls at the man's ineptitude. "Where are...you taking me?" he manages, his face contorting with pain.

The man’s tongue darts out to lick his lips—a nervous habit perhaps, unless he’s half-snake—and then speaks. “I’m gonna need your help for that part, actually. You nodded off before you could give me directions to…well, whatever charming abode you and your brother were holed up in.”

Vladimir would have interrupted him, but his brain is working too hard and too slowly to translate and subsequently comprehend the semantics in his feverish state.

“You want,” he starts, calculating and focused, with just a hint of scorn, “me to…to tell you where I live?”

“Yes, Vladimir, I want you to tell me where you live, so that I can take you there and we can find someone to patch you up,” Matt replies, exasperated. It gives Vladimir some pleasure to know how easily he can get under the man's skin. Not enough that it can counteract the biting pain he feels, but he’ll take what little he can get at this point.

“The only people who know where we live are…” The image of his brother’s cold, headless body lying in front of him flashes bright and vivid in his mind. Not for the first time tonight, he supresses the bile threatening to rise. “We should go somewhere else.”

Even as he says it, he doubts he’ll be able to make it to wherever he ends up being taken.

“ _Vladimir_ ,” he says, voice hoarse with desperation. It makes Vladimir’s lips curl up in amusement. _Do you think this is a game?_ The man had asked him and yeah, he does. It has always been a game to him. Pawns moving forward, slow and calculated, until they are transformed into something better. Something more important, more powerful. _But not immortal,_ he adds bitterly.

Vladimir thinks about telling the man where he lives, but as soon as he does so he will be hoisted back onto his feet and dragged through the streets. They seemed far enough away from danger for now, and the man strikes Vladimir as a soppy sentimentalist.

“You know, when I was child,” he says, “my brother and I... we would play chess to pass time.” Vladimir can’t help but smirk again, briefly, wishing he could see the exasperation beneath the mask. “We grew up in city named Zagorsk, fascinating place if you like monasteries and _turistov._ We spent most of our days there waiting in lines for bread or running errands for our father, when we were not being brainwashed by communists at school.”

“Is this going somewhere?” Matt interrupts, and Vladimir grins again, though it could easily be mistaken for a grimace.

“We weren’t allowed to play with other children,” Vladimir continues, undeterred, “but we had chess set. That is, until our beloved _batya_ sold it, as he did with most things.” He pauses briefly to swallow thickly, a pang of sorrow sinking slowly and sharply into his chest. Certain memories were, perhaps, best left untouched, though it was not the past that was affecting him. His entire life had been shared with his brother, excluding the three years before his brother existed, and the time Vladimir had spent in prison alone. Even then, Anatoly had visited him.

“Anyway,” he says slowly, as though gathering his thoughts into coherent English. “I became very familiar with this game. My brother was much better at it, even though he is…even though he was younger.” Past tense is taking some getting used to. His lip quirks upward. “We would play almost every night, and almost every night I would lose. I hated him for this, you know. We were not close as boys. I would always pick on him. Yell at him, call him names, push him over. Because he was weak, and I was strong, and I hated to lose.

“In…” he searches for the right word. “In retrospect…It was my anger that caused me to lose each time. It was lesson my brother tried to teach me until the day he died.”

Vladimir has no idea what it is that’s keeping him talking, he rarely even spoke with his brother about such memories. The vigilante remains crouched in front of him, unmoving and unnerving as ever, so Vladimir turns his head to stare at the bright neon lights coming from the street at one end of the alleyway. He reflects upon the last time he spoke with his brother, how Anatoly had obstinately decided to play the diplomat, how it had gotten him killed. Barely repressed anger bubbles to the surface once again. Anger at his brother for being so stubborn, for leaving him alone. If his brother had only stayed…

_And they called me the stubborn one._

A gentle but grounding hand, placed just above his knee, brings him back to the present. Vladimir turns to scowl at the man, though the contact is… pleasant. Warm, somehow. It takes a lot to bite back the scolding hot tears gathering in his vision.

By way of distraction, he studies what little of the man’s face he can make out. The distant flicker and glow of colourful take-out signs outlines a strong jaw and a chin that juts out, soft and round. Stubble covers all of what the mask does not, and it’s not dissimilar to Vladimir’s own. His lips, though…His lips are obscene. That’s just a fact; an objective and inarguable truth. Even as he thinks this, the man’s jaw drops just a fraction, and Vladimir wonders idly if mind-reading is among his many talents (along with hearing heartbeats from two buildings away, and being nauseatingly self-righteous.)

Abruptly, he comes to a realisation:

“You have not told me your name.”

“You haven’t told me where you live,” Matt replies, without missing a beat.

The Russian smiles wryly. “Nor have I finished telling you my story.”

Matt doesn’t seem to find this funny, but no matter. Vladimir will keep trying.

“Of the two, I would rather have your address.”

Vladimir chuckles at this, though it sounds more like an amused exhalation of breath. He pauses before replying, to make sure he’s willing to bet with the following stakes.

“You can have both,” he says, “for a name. A real name. Right now the only thing you are to me is a masked _mudak_.”

“I’m also your only hope of not dying a slow, painful, and extremely lacklustre death in this alley.”

Well, that was true enough. Perhaps he had misjudged this man.

“But…' _Mudak_ ' is close.”

Vladimir laughs in earnest at this, throwing his head back against the wall hard enough that it probably made a dent and ignoring the pain it revives. “Your name is _mudak_?”

“No,” Matt replies testily. Vladimir can practically see him prickle with annoyance. “I said it was close.”

“Then your name is…Mark?”

The masked asshole grits his teeth. “It’s Matt. My name’s Matt.”

Vladimir snorts. “I don’t know whether to be pleased that you trust me, or insulted that you don’t think I am big enough threat to lie to me.” When Matt doesn’t offer a reply, he decides to test the name out on his tongue. “ _Matt_ ,” he appraises. “ _Matthew_. Like the apostle.”

For a split second, Vladimir thinks he’s caught Matt’s attention. His mouth opens like he’s about to ask a question, but it dissolves as quickly as it materialised, and in the next instant Matt moves toward him and covers his own mouth with a hand. Vladimir’s first thought was not that he’s being attacked, as it should have been. Call it wishful thinking. His eyes widen and he attempts to push Matt away from him until the masked man—until _Matt_ —shushes him and lowers his head as he did in the warehouse.

Vladimir frowns, but catches on quicker this time, and turns his head as much as he can in the direction Matt's is tilted. Then, several things happen simultaneously:

Matt leaps—actually leaps—away from Vladimir; the light at the end of the alley vanishes and is replaced by a figure-shaped shadow; a gun is fired; a bullet flies so close to Vladimir’s face he could have sworn he felt the air shift in its wake. It’s unclear then whether time speeds up or slows down, or whether Vladimir is far less with it than he previously thought, but Matt rebounds off the wall to avoid a second bullet, jumps, again, this time toward the stranger and avoids a third with a roll. The roll becomes a tackle, a metal clatter indicates a dropped gun, and the rest of the fight plays out as silhouettes illuminated by neon.

From the noises being made, Vladimir would take a guess at the assailant being a woman. He squints, trying to make sense of the shapes and shadows flickering across his vision—light and dark, light and dark, light and dark, and catches the brief glimmer of a badge when she moves to dodge a blow. The officer, then. Did she follow them? If so, how could Matt not have noticed?

And, most importantly, does every New York City Policewoman learn martial arts at the academy, or just the ones Wilson Fisk employs? As far as he can tell, which, admittedly, wasn’t very far, she seems to be keeping up with ease.

As he watches them having all the fun, Vladimir starts to feel restless.

If they notice him struggle to his feet, they don’t show it. If they notice him hobble over to a trash can and take the lid, they don’t show that either. In fact, they don’t seem to be aware of him at all. He stands, leaning against the wall and clutching his side with his free hand, for some time before he decides to intervene. Matt is clearly the more skilled fighter of the two, but his reactions are slower, probably due to fatigue. He’s tempted to let it play out of its own accord, to see whose stamina is greater, but God knows how long that will take. It’s a shame, because the fight is entertaining, but Vladimir doesn’t want to die in this alleyway. Tonight is not the night.

When Vladimir approaches, he does so as if approaching a wild beast. That’s certainly what it feels like. The two are moving so fast, so erratically, that he’s tensed and ready to jump out the way at a moment’s notice.

The officer notices him at precisely the wrong moment. Matt lands a punch to her face whilst she’s distracted, and she staggers back from the force of it. Vladimir seizes his golden opportunity and the metal lid collides with her head so fast and sudden that Matt almost seems shocked. The lid crashes to the ground noisily. _Like swatting a fly_ , Vladimir thinks. Matt barely spares him a glance before yelling his name in reprimand and crouching over the woman’s body, completely missing the brick that Vladimir holds in his other hand.

Vladimir stares at the back of Matt’s head and can’t help but be amused at how unaware this man was. This was the second time he'd been caught with his guard down in the space of a few minutes. It was a fucking miracle he’d managed to stay alive this long.      

“ _Nichego... lichnogo_.”

By the time the first syllable of a _‘what?’_ forms on Matt’s lips, the brick hits him. It’s perfectly timed, angled, and weighted to knock him unconscious, and no further. Vladimir muses that he has probably knocked out more men with bricks than he’s fucked, which is a crying shame, but also the unfortunate reality of being a Russian mob leader.

Matt’s body falls limply across the officer’s, and Vladimir admires his work. The vigilante couldn’t even take down one woman; Vladimir had knocked them both unconscious when he was barely conscious himself.

Even as he mutters about _pathetic pussies_ to himself in Russian, he bends down and presses two fingers against Matt’s pulse. Just to be sure. That is, to be sure he had applied the right amount of force; to be sure he had calculated correctly. And he had, as he knew he had. Matt was still alive. A quotation about Stockholm syndrome rattles around in his brain until he shakes it out angrily. Or, perhaps it wasn’t a quotation. It must have been something Anatoly said a long time ago, and he didn’t have time for the words of ghosts to haunt him. Matt was not his captor. He would never have another captor again.

Fuelled by anger more than strength now, Vladimir pats down Matt’s body until he finds what he was looking for, and types the digits into the phone. It’s the only number has memorised besides his brother’s and his own, both of which are useless now.

The phone rings out, so he dials again. This time the call is picked up.

“ _Chto_?” he hears.

“ _U menya k vam pros'b_ ,” he answers. _I need a favour._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian translations: 
> 
> Chto: what  
> Nyet: no  
> Turistov: tourists  
> Batya: dad (I think)  
> Mudak: asshole  
> Nichego lichnogo: this is nothing personal  
> U menya k vam pros'b: I have something to ask of you
> 
> I think that's all of it. 
> 
> I'm super busy from now until... June, I guess. I'm going to the USA and working and seeing bands so it might be a while 'til the next update!
> 
> Also: thank you for reading! And thank you to the lovely people who have commented. It means a lot.


	3. Down On My Bended Knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pressure increases. Vladimir’s knuckles press bruises into Matt’s collarbone. “You think that because you saved my life I won’t fucking kill you, _govnyuk?_ Hm?”

Three days pass without so much as a sign of Vladimir Ranskahov, and then three more. Honestly, Matt nearly forgets all about the criminal for a while; what with Stick appearing on the scene, and then Karen and Foggy intent on hurling themselves in harm’s way at any given opportunity. He has neither the time nor the leads to chase up someone who may or may not be of use. The chips are falling, and Matt has to catch them all before Fisk does. He cut it fine with Hoffman and Blake, which turned out to be a waste of time once Fisk went public anyway.

It’s desperation that makes him visit Vanessa’s art gallery, he knows that in retrospect. Desperation to protect his friends from Fisk, to find a way to stop him without stooping to his level; without letting the devil inside. The very thought of it is a poison, seeping through his mind and infecting his conscience, but it’s so tempting nonetheless. When he steps out of the Church, his head is a mess. What Father Lantom said is true. Matt went to him looking for a reason not to kill Fisk, but there’s still a heavy weight on his left shoulder daring him to do the opposite. It’s difficult to envisage a scenario in which Fisk could ever be stopped mercifully. Regardless of what his faith tells him, Fisk’s death feels necessary; it feels imminent. The end hangs, stagnant, before him, all he has to do is walk.

Maybe Vladimir had been right.

Matt does walk, but not toward the end. Postponing any kind of decision almost feels like the right decision to make for the time being, in case some game-changing factor reveals itself, and Matt is spared this burden. For now, he walks without direction. It’s difficult to do in a city he knows like the back of his hand, but he allows himself to switch off as best as he can; allows his senses to guide him rather than his internal map, and tries to get lost in somewhere as familiar to him as his own body. He acts instinctively, following a new scent here or a curious sound there, wherever his senses sub-consciously steer him. There’s no thinking involved, for a change. Fisk still waits – patient and portentous – in the back of his mind, but he’s subdued; a distant thunderstorm that cracks and then goes silent. Memories enter and exit his head. They drift, mingling with the present. The distinction between reality and hallucination is blurrier when sight is out of the picture. Sounds, tastes, smells… They're so much easier to recall in perfect clarity. The bitter taste of blood in the air, the damp, salty smell of perspiration, the sound of fractured bones shifting…

There’s a hand at his throat. His back hits the wall. He chokes on his own surprise, spittle flying from his mouth and his hands raising instinctively to knock the assailant back, but he’s too slow. The fingers at his neck are gone, two hands pressing his wrists into the bricks, and he’s about to head-butt the stranger when he breathes a deep, shuddering gasp of a breath, and realises it’s no stranger.

“Who are you? Why do you follow me?” a voice hisses, the stench of expensive vodka ghosting over Matt’s face, pervading his senses, and instead of recoiling, he breathes in deeper. Stunned into silence at being caught off-guard, Matt’s lips twitch uselessly around unuttered words. “Answer me!” The voice is slurred, just slightly, around the edges.

“V—Vladimir?” he whispers, partially a disbelieving question, but mostly a statement. Matt’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and taste the air, then represses a shiver when Vladimir closes the remaining distance between their bodies and restrains his movements with his chest. Vladimir moves slowly – unnecessarily slowly – almost languidly, as though he’s enjoying the control he has. Matt’s breath hitches when Vladimir speaks again, this time impossibly close to his face.

“Yes…” he says slowly, cautiously, like he’s speaking to a child, and then goes still and quiet, recognition dawning upon him. A strangled laugh breaks away from his throat. “You,” he says. “I wondered… I wondered how long it would take you.”

“Ta…Take me?” he breathes, head jerking slightly as he tries to pinpoint how many weapons the Russian has on his person.

Vladimir hums impatiently, makes a ‘tsk’ sound. “ _Da-a_ …” he replies, like he’s speaking to a child. “To find me.” Each guttural noise Vladimir makes as he wraps his tongue around the second language drags Matt under the water once more, struggling to fight, to control his erratic heartbeat. Vladimir’s beats steadily, purposefully, and Matt draws a deep breath in before speaking.

“F—find you? I didn’t—I don’t—…” But just like that, the quietude dissipates. Vladimir’s fists find his collar and he’s pulled forward and then thrust forcefully backwards.

“Do not play games with me!” Vladimir’s voice cuts through the rushing of blood and the slight ringing that clouds Matt’s hearing, as violent and brutal as the man himself. “You were following me for blocks. I want to know how you found me!” The pressure increases. Vladimir’s knuckles press bruises into Matt’s collarbone. “You think that because you saved my life I won’t fucking kill you, _govnyuk_? Hm?”

“Listen to me – listen, I wasn’t following you. I was just walking. I—…”

The Russian practically growls, but Matt predicts his next move.

The fist that swings for his face collides with brick as Matt dodges it smoothly, using the Russian’s reduced grip to tear himself loose, ducking when Vladimir clumsily launches another fist in his direction. A well-placed kick sends the knife that Vladimir was reaching for clattering to the ground, which Vladimir compensates for by charging at Matt, catching him off-guard and sending them both tumbling over. Matt’s glasses land somewhere off to the right – a foot and three and half inches away, to be precise, but they were the least of his worries. Vladimir wastes no time in trying to pin him down again, but this time Matt lurches forward and uses his full weight to flip them both over and land squarely on top of his opponent. Predictably, Vladimir lunges for the knife, but Matt swipes it away with ease and uses a knee to pin him in place. The intoxicated Russian grabs Matt by the front of his shirt and pulls him closer, leans forward himself, but doesn’t seem to know where to go from there.

For a few moments, they both just breathe heavily.

“I’m telling the truth, Vladimir. I wasn’t following you. I didn’t even know you were still alive.”

The Russian snorts, but his grip loosens. After a few long moments of glaring he releases Matt completely and allows himself to fall backwards dramatically, spreading his arms and legs and moaning in a bored, exasperated fashion. “Of course I did. You made sure of this, Matthew.” There’s a pause after the name falls from his lips and, of all things, it makes Matt want to smile. The panting more or less disguises the huff of laughter he releases, or at least he hopes. Now, of all times, Vladimir crashes back into his life, and the vigilante is… Pleased. He’s relieved. Logically it should be because the Russian could have valuable information, but truthfully it’s because Vladimir’s appearance is a chaotic respite from the rest of the confusion that whirlwinds around him.

Clearly he doesn’t fight the smile as well as he thought, because Vladimir broaches the subject with a smile of his own hidden plainly in his voice. “What are you smiling at, _mudak_?”

“We have to stop meeting like this.”

“In alleyways?”

“Violently,” Matt corrects. “If you’re thinking about hitting me with a brick again, I’d have to advise you against it. I’m prepared for you this time.”

“Are you?” Vladimir asks, a teasing lilt to his otherwise unaffected voice. It’s hard to decipher whether he’s doing it to make him uncomfortable or whether there’s something sincere beneath the mess of deceit, but either way it works.

Matt swallows thickly, and doesn’t reply.

* * *

“Why did you leave?” Matt asks, as he nurses the cheap swill Vladimir bought him. “I was going to help you.”

The two sit opposite each other in a nondescript, grubby bar that had seemed to coat their skin with a thin layer of dirt from the moment they'd wandered in. It's quiet enough that neither risk being recognised, but busy enough to avoid eavesdropping. For once, Matt is glad he can't see the dingy location. Vladimir is the one who led him here; it might well be the only place in Hell’s Kitchen that Matt isn't familiar with. The bar is a cesspool for the scum of the city, though – he knows that without even having to assess any of them. The thick stench of blood that hovers in the air is testament enough to that.

His companion waves a hand dismissively, unaware that Matt can't – or at least shouldn’t have been able to – perceive the gesture. But Matt feels the gush of air, pinpoints the implicating click of his wrist as it sways. “Nothing personal. I prefer my own methods.” He pauses to down his glass of vodka, and then sip his beer. “Besides, it is better for you this way.”

“How so?”

“Less mess. Less…explanation.”

Matt hums his agreement. It was undoubtedly easier to explain that Vladimir had knocked him out and escaped. He wasn’t even supposed to have saved his life in the first place. “You know, I didn’t drag you out of that fire-fight and through half of the streets in Hell’s Kitchen just so you could become an alcoholic.”

“ _Nyet_?” Vladimir calls his bluff. “Then why?”

God only knows.

“Was it to follow me around, like lost puppy? Hm? Or so that you could invite me to bar and hit on me?”

Warmth rushes to Matt’s cheeks, and he turns away from the man sitting across from him, his mouth gaping in faux disgust. Vladimir grins – wide and shark-like, but it's lost on Matt.

“I’ve told you already. I wasn’t following you. And you invited me to…”

“My turn,” Vladimir interrupts. “Were you born blind?”

“No.”

“How did it happen?”

Matt sips his drink calmly, before placing it back down on the table. “You used your question already.”

Vladimir huffs. “ _Bohze_. Fine. Hit me.” He pauses. “That is figure of speech.”

“I know,” Matt says, the urge to hate Vladimir and the urge to be charmed by him in a sick, abhorrent way warring with one another. “Are you religious?”

For a few moments Vladimir is silent, and Matt begins to think he’s hit a sore point already. But his heartbeat and breathing are steady, and he remains relaxed in the wooden bench of the booth. He takes a breath as though he’s about to speak, but releases it again, sounding irritated. That didn’t tell him much, though; when was Vladimir not at least a little irritated?

“I was named after ‘Vladimir the Great’,” he says, spinning the beer bottle around on the table. The condensation drips down the glass and onto the tips of his fingers, which fidget restlessly. If Matt were to hazard an educated guess at his expression, it would be ‘contemplative’. “I was raised to be Christian.”

“Hell of a name to live up to,” Matt comments, and Vladimir forces a laugh. “For a second I thought you were going to say ‘the Impaler’.” At that, Vladimir laughs again, but it rings hollow in Matt’s ears.

“My father was not prophet. Maybe if he was, he would have named me after killer instead.” Matt doesn’t know Vladimir’s story; doesn’t understand the peculiar implication behind his words, but it seemed like fathers were a touchy subject for both of them. “No, I was named after founder of Orthodox Church. My father was religious man, in his own way. I think… Maybe… He thought it made him exempt.” Vladimir looked up from the bottle, and Matt feels him adjust the trajectory of his attention toward Matt with a single look. There’s a shift in the air that feels an awful lot like a predator honing in on its prey. “I think maybe…You feel same way.” Matt can feel the smug amusement rolling off Vladimir, but he also knows he’s trying to shift the conversation.

“I know I’m not exempt from His judgement. Nobody is.”

A scoff tells Matt that Vladimir doesn’t believe him. “You think you’ll go to heaven for saving my life, or to hell?”

“It wouldn’t be very Christian of me if I let you bleed out right in front of me. I want to meet St. Peter with my hands clean,” Matt retorts.

“I think He would make exception.” Vladimir’s lip quirks in and reveals a flash of teeth that Matt can’t see, but can hear the wet sound of his lip separating from his teeth. “Seeing as it is me.”

Matt wonders if Vladimir had perhaps been a wolf in a past life.

“Do you think my soul can still be saved, Matthew the Apostle?”

And God, Vladimir is enjoying this too much. The satisfaction drips from his words. When Matt doesn’t answer immediately, Vladimir raises his voice to order them another round. Or, at least, that’s what Matt assumes. He speaks in Russian to the barman, who replies in Russian, and, not for the first time tonight, Matt feels out of his depth.

“That’s not a question I can—.”

Vladimir shushes him.

Matt quirks an affronted eyebrow. His lips twitch around unformed words for a few moments, until he notices what Vladimir presumably has. Angling his head to get a better perception of the two men, he tries to gauge what they’ll do.

“They’re staring at you,” Vladimir notes, reminding Matt how much he must stick out amongst all the lowlifes in his crisp suit, silk white shirt and all. “Like they want to eat you.” Apparently Vladimir is amused by this, because he chuckles, but Matt ignores him. Only one of them is packing, as far as he can tell – it’s a pistol, maybe 10mm…

“It is P-96, if you were wondering. Russian-made,” Vladimir says disinterestedly. Before Matt can even ask how he knows that, he reads his mind a second time. “It is sticking out of his pocket, like warning sign. Or invitation.” The seat creaks as Vladimir sprawls out and downs the rest of his drink in three obscene gulps, slamming the bottle on the table with a satisfied noise and an air of finality. Radar-like senses inform Matt of the Russian crossing his arms and spreading his legs; the very picture of nonchalance, feigned or otherwise. “Stop doing that.”

“What?”

“That thing – the twitching and the sniffing. You look like cute little meerkat,” he teases.

Matt elects to ignore that, mostly because he’s not sure how to react to being called ‘cute’ by a Russian mob leader. Clearly the alcohol was beginning to affect him. It’d taken long enough – his blood stream must be least eighty percent hard liquor by this point. If not, he seemed to be working his way there steadily.

“Do you know them?”

“No,” Vladimir replies, as a fresh round arrives at their table – one large bottle accompanied by two glasses. Although, ‘arrive’ is a generous term for it; more accurately it's thrown down by an overzealous bartender. Matt catches the toppling bottle of – is that… spiced rum? – before either Vladimir or the bartender realise it had begun to fall. He surprises himself, too, and the awkward silence that follows indicates that he has once again done something incongruous. When they’re left alone again, Vladimir leans in conspiratorially – though from the sway of his body and the smirk on his face it’s clear he’s not taking it as seriously as Matt is. “Ignore them.”

If only it were that easy. Such sensitive perception is a curse as well as a blessing. He can't always just shut things out, especially when his instincts tell him not to, and even more so when he's in a strange environment, with strange company who went from sworn enemy to situational ally in a few short hours. Their relationship seemed to have changed again in the last week or so since Matt had seen him last, but he still can't put his finger on the new title. Reluctant non-enemies, he supposes, though he knows he should still consider Vladimir an enemy.

“I can’t. They’re very distracting.” The two men were a cacophony of disruption; everything about them was loud, from their voices to their odour.

“Ignore them,” Vladimir repeats slowly. “If they want a fight, I will give them one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian translations:  
> Da: yes  
> Govnyuk: shithead  
> Nyet: no  
> Bozhe: God
> 
> Back at it again in Vladimir hell ten months later!
> 
> Sorry it's been so long. Sorry that it's not that great. I started writing this chapter almost a year ago and I only just got around to finishing it, but ho hum. Hopefully I won't abandon this again! I've got my Vladinspiration back so I have more chapters planned out than I originally intended. I'll run out of Placebo lyrics to use as chapter titles soon.
> 
> Anyway enjoy! Comments are appreciate as always <3


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